


Muse

by tastewithouttalent



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-06 09:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20504807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Achilles was startlingly old before he realized that not everyone bears within himself the easy confidence that has accompanied him all the years of his life, and older still before he realized his constant companion felt the same vaguely offended distaste for his own features that so many of their fellows do." Achilles takes advantage of a quiet night to appreciate Patroclus as thoroughly as he deserves.





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dipuc (TomAyto10)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomAyto10/gifts).

Patroclus is beautiful.

Achilles has never understood why Patroclus cannot see this in himself. Achilles knows of his own beauty, after all, feels grace in the arches of his feet and the speed of his movement as surely as he can sense the weight of the eyes that follow him, that linger against his gold hair and the span of his shoulders under his tunic. He was startlingly old before he realized that not everyone bears within himself the easy confidence that has accompanied him all the years of his life, and older still before he realized his constant companion felt the same vaguely offended distaste for his own features that so many of their fellows do.

It is the only factor on which they have ever truly disagreed, Achilles thinks. He knows how he appears to Patroclus; if other’s gazes are distant and uninteresting, Patroclus’s attention has always carried all the warmth of sunlight with it, even in the first flickers of illumination that glittered across Achilles’s wrists and fingers while he was juggling at the dinner table. Achilles remembers the pleasure of that, the shimmer of satisfaction that rippled through him like a wave plying the surface of the ocean that his mother claims for her own; the bright, crystalline self-consciousness that held him, long before he found the simple joy of being appreciated unfolding into the shadowy depths of a want that took him as many years to pin down as he took in laying claim to Patroclus himself. But he had looked back, even more frankly than Patroclus’s fleeting, shy attention, learning the line of bone along Patroclus’s shoulderblade and the rounded curve of his jaw as closely as if he had pressed his hands close against the warm skin marked with the salt of exertion or ocean alike, and he had thought Patroclus felt the comfort of his gaze as clearly as Achilles himself basked in the sure knowledge of Patroclus’s appreciation of him.

He means to undo his oversight, now. He realized his mistake years ago; it is in the flickering candlelight that washes over their joined bed that he has finally found his path to a remedy, in the same place the two of them have burned off their fever of desire in the clasp of the other’s arms. Patroclus would think it appropriate, Achilles thinks, that they should find such cures in the home of a teacher who is a healer, above all else; Achilles finds it another gift among those laid along the path of his life to sparkle like treasure under his reaching fingertips, and like all the rest he is keen to make use of this to the best purpose he can make of it.

Patroclus is asleep. It is an inevitability, Achilles has learned; the relief of pleasure strips Patroclus to the exhaustion of pure satisfaction and leaves his lashes dipping heavy over his eyes however he tries to cling to awareness. Achilles laughs when he tries to stay awake, and leans in to kiss him until his eyes flutter shut under the persuasion of his lips, and when his own stirring heart will not let him rest he lies across the tumble of blankets around them, his weight supported upon the brace of his elbows, and turns himself to memorizing the tender familiarity of Patroclus’s features as if he’s claiming them for himself anew.

There is a softness to Patroclus. Achilles knows this was a pain to the other, before, when their youth demanded success in a language that Patroclus has only ever spoken as a foreign dialect; in past years Patroclus has borne a tension at his jaw, a strain in his shoulders even in sleep, as if trying to cross the gap he sensed between his own talents and the expectations of the warrior he was assumed to be. Chiron has eased that strain, smoothed the crease from Patroclus’s brow and the clench from his jaw as he laid out a different path to follow, another course down which he might pace, and Achilles has seen to the capitulation of the rest, teasing dregs of insecurity and tight-held doubt loose under the press of his lips and the touch of his fingers to dissolve into the air as nothing more than the soft, pleading notes that Patroclus spills so readily for Achilles’s asking. Now when he sleeps he dreams deeply, and with the curve of a smile fitting to the corner of his lips, and when Achilles watches him he feels his heart ache as if it is trying to contain all the endless thunder of the ocean waves at once.

The candlelight flickers over them, layering gold over Patroclus’s hair spread loose over the pillow, skimming to drape across the soft curve of his mouth set free of its waking focus. His lashes are dark at his cheeks, where the bone has risen to press sharp under the surface over the last years they have spent in Chiron’s company; with the blankets tangled around his hips and one hand cast across his bare chest, Achilles thinks Patroclus is beautiful enough to catch at anyone’s breath, man or woman alike. It’s an easy thing to slip into dreamlike appreciation, Achilles finds, for his thoughts to draw free of the constraints of time as his gaze kisses Patroclus’s smooth brow, and curved collarbones, and graceful fingers, as if all the expanse of the night was made more for this purpose than for the more mundane use of sleeping.

Achilles can only look so long. He thinks he could go on appreciating Patroclus all day, for weeks, years, a lifetime losing himself in the form that proves the presence of that person most vital to him in all the world; it is not boredom but the creeping edge of greed that pulls him in, that stirs him from his self-contained pleasure. Patroclus’s fingers are lying against his skin, his palm resting at his chest; Achilles begins to feel the ache to echo it, a jealousy as easily remedied as in the action of lifting his hand out to span the distance. Patroclus’s skin is warm against Achilles’s fingers, smooth and soft enough to urge his palm in to slide appreciation over it, to draw his hand down to test the fit of his hold at the indentation and curve of Patroclus’s hip, and his lips claim their own right to touch beneath the curve of Patroclus’s ear, to brush over the sloping line of the other’s shoulder. Achilles kisses along the hollow of Patroclus’s collarbone, working his way in from the other’s shoulder and along to the space at the base of his throat, and it’s as he touches his tongue to taste the shadows pooling beneath the flutter of Patroclus’s heartbeat that he feels the other stir and shift at the bed beneath him.

“Mm,” Patroclus hums, the sound soft and plaintive with the effect of sleep in his throat. His shoulder flexes, his back arches; Achilles follows the wave of his motion with the ease of long experience, matching himself to the pull of the other’s body moving beneath his so they end closer than when they began. Patroclus’s hand slides between them to work itself free, and Achilles takes the space thus offered to urge himself the closer as Patroclus’s fingers rise to brush the trailing ends of his hair. “Achilles?”

“Yes,” Achilles says, and turns his head that he may kiss farther along Patroclus’s neck, where the small motions of waking pull at the tendons.

Patroclus’s fingers wander deeper into his hair, finding their way to stroke along the golden strands with drowsy affection. “Is it the morning?”

Achilles shakes his head. He’s so near that Patroclus will better be able to feel the motion than see it. “The night is yet ours.”

“Ah.” Patroclus’s other hand lifts from the tumble of blankets; Achilles feels the heat of the other’s fingers at his waist, skimming across the shape of his ribcage with delicate care. “How long was I asleep?”

Achilles works his shoulder into an easy shrug. “Long enough,” he says, and slides his knee up between Patroclus’s thighs that he may better steady himself for a forward drag of his hips urging down atop the other’s.

The sound in Patroclus’s throat is darker, this time, bearing a weight to prove his rousing as much as the tilt of his body cresting up to meet Achilles’s. Achilles draws up the line of Patroclus’s throat to kiss against his jaw, his motion formed around the rising force of need in him. Patroclus turns his head, offering the same implicit assent that is so quickly stirring sleep-weight into the tension of arousal through the form beneath Achilles’s own. Achilles kisses his jaw, his cheek, working his way up across the narrow lines of the face as familiar as it is beautiful. Then Patroclus takes a breath, and turns his head up to cast his gaze at Achilles over him, and Achilles must press a hand to the other’s cheek and dip his head to kiss into the soft of Patroclus’s lips.

Patroclus meets him at once. Whatever haze of sleep yet clung to him is fast vanishing, remaining only in a kind of graceful langour that suffuses the shift of his body flexing beneath Achilles’s, and when Achilles’s mouth finds his Patroclus lifts his chin to offer the open part of his lips with no need for urging from the hand Achilles is cradling around his head. Patroclus’s fingers sink deep into Achilles’s hair to shape themselves to a brace at the back of the other’s neck; his breathing winds itself into Achilles’s own, until they are drawing on the same air between them. His lips are soft, his tongue hot and sweet, and Achilles must draw him nearer, must work farther into the shadowed surrender of Patroclus’s mouth. Their hands slide, fingers reaching for better purchase against the tangle of soft hair, or the sheen of warm skin, until Achilles can hardly tell the space of his breathing from Patroclus’s, can’t imagine separating the flex of his body from the press of Patroclus curving up to match them skin-to-skin.

For a long span it is impossible even to separate enough for the reach of wanting fingers to interpose between them. Achilles is warm all through, even the pressing demand of desire softened a little by their indulgence earlier in the night, and Patroclus is still heavy with sleep, as if his pleasure is coming to him through the hazy mist of dreams. They press themselves together, entangling legs and arms to brace their bodies flush one to the other, and when one moves the other gasps, or clutches, or moans, and responds in kind. They work against each other, paired rhythms coming together to form one greater whole, until Achilles begins to feel the ache of need tighten to a fist, insistent and unavoidable. His cock is straining upon Patroclus’s hip, reaching for greater friction than what Achilles can make for himself against the angle of bone and the tension of muscle, and Patroclus is as hot, the length of him digging in hard against the work of Achilles’s thigh. Their kissing has gone desperate, taking on the rough edge of need from the panting of their breaths coming around the force of their lips joining, until when Patroclus breaks free to gasp Achilles protests the separation no more than he complains at the motion of the hand at his waist fumbling between the press of their bodies. Achilles rocks in against his elbow at the bed, steadying himself as his hand tightens to brace at Patroclus’s hair, and Patroclus ducks his head the better to aim the slide of his hand as they both reach for the other. Achilles trails along Patroclus’s hip, following the path marked out for his fingers to find the base of Patroclus’s cock, and as he strokes his touch up over the other’s length Patroclus’s fingers tighten about the heat of his own in turn. Achilles gusts a breath, Patroclus’s shoulders ease from their brief tension, and they both move as one to stroke over the heat of the other’s desire.

Achilles will never tire of this. He has limited experience, only what they have been able to find for themselves in the last weeks in Chiron’s cave; but he is certain already that he will never lose his satisfaction in watching the flush of pleasure climb into Patroclus’s face, in seeing arousal soften in Patroclus’s lips as if a mirror for the desire Achilles can feel building in the depths of his own body. Achilles feels his want for Patroclus as a function of his existence itself, like the ache of his lungs for air or the need of his body for motion; so does his soul crave the satisfaction of this intimacy, of aligning his body and heart and soul so completely with that existence that has always been dearer even than his own self. His pleasure feeds on Patroclus’s, Patroclus’s heat rises in answer to Achilles’s own, until even the focus of Achilles’s gaze on Patroclus’s heat-softened expression gives way and he must curve himself in, must bury his face within the dip of Patroclus’s shoulder and breathe the radiance of the other’s heat-fevered blood into his own chest. Their hands race each other, speeding with their rising desire as if it is their own satisfaction for which they strive; as they are, Achilles thinks, from the blur of thoughts made dizzy on the heat coursing through him. They are one in this, in their life, in their soul. When Patroclus arches up it is Achilles who moans his want to the other’s skin; when Achilles’s hips flex forward it is Patroclus’s cock that flushes with heat within his grip. They are one, laced into each other by far more than the friction-heat of their mutual desire, until Achilles does not see how anyone might ever even think to separate them.

They come together. Achilles does not know which of them first catches his breath around the anticipation of satisfaction; it makes no difference, when they are speaking with one voice, moving with one body. His shoulders flex, Patroclus’s thighs strain, and when they spill together Achilles feels Patroclus’s release hot over his fingers as pleasure bursts into incandescence behind his eyes. Achilles’s shoulders sag, his weight presses down close against Patroclus beneath him, and when Patroclus’s hand slides at his hair it is only to draw around his shoulders to cradle Achilles closer against him within the angle of his elbow.

They lie still together for a long span of minutes. The night is gentle in its passing, easing the sharp edges of time to a dreamy haze around them, until Achilles can think more of the heat of Patroclus’s breathing softening to comfort and the slow unwinding of pleasure-tension in his own body than of the demands of existence bearing down on them. They are eternal, like this, as endless and absolute as the shadows of the night itself. Achilles turns his head in closer against Patroclus’s neck, shifting to urge his nose in against the curve of the other’s throat, and when he breathes out his exhale shudders into a sigh of perfect contentment against Patroclus’s skin.

Patroclus’s fingers slide against his shoulder, wandering idle paths against the curve of Achilles’s collarbone. “Are you ready to rest now, Achilles?”

“Mm,” Achilles hums, and slides free the hand caught between them that he may better shift himself into a comfortable slouch against Patroclus. “For now, I think, yes.” He nuzzles closer to fit his nose in against the back of Patroclus’s ear and draw a breath from the radiance of the other’s body. Patroclus’s breath sticks in his throat, Achilles can feel it against him as clearly as he can hear the sound. It makes him smile into the shadows of Patroclus’s hair. “I shall wake you if that should change.”

Patroclus laughs, very softly and very gently. “Very well,” he says, and draws his hand free to drape his arm around the line of Achilles’s waist. Achilles eases in closer under the persuasion of Patroclus’s undemanding hold. He can hear the smile under the drowsy slur of the other’s voice. “So long as you do.”

“Always,” Achilles says. “Patroclus.” Patroclus hums heat in the back of his throat; but he’s slipping back into sleep beneath the comfort of Achilles’s body over him, and Achilles does not rouse him again. He turns his head to rest against the pillow he has made for himself of Patroclus’s form, and slides his hand to brace at the back of Patroclus’s shoulder, and this time when he shuts his eyes Patroclus’s arms around him bear him smoothly into sleep.


End file.
